


For the Forge Grows Dark and Cold

by Drag0nst0rm



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, Hopeful Ending, a little dark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-24
Updated: 2018-06-24
Packaged: 2019-05-28 01:21:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15037610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Drag0nst0rm/pseuds/Drag0nst0rm
Summary: If the dwarves wish to keep their secrets, it is no one's business but their own.(And possibly Bilbo's and his heir's, but that's alright. There was a contract.)





	For the Forge Grows Dark and Cold

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [no more the hammers sing](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12874881) by [Antarctica_or_bust](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Antarctica_or_bust/pseuds/Antarctica_or_bust). 



> I don't own Tolkien's work, and I actually own less of this particular concept than is usual for fanfiction, as this was inspired by Antarctica-or-bust's excellent "No More the Hammers Sing."

There were only three dwarves at the Council of Elrond. Fierce old Dwalin, whose strength had not faded with age, came along as a guard for the road, Gloin, who was deemed the best choice to speak for them, and young Gimli.

Gimli was fully of age and a talented warrior in his own right; he had protested many times the descriptor of _young_ , but he suspected he would be stuck with it to his dying day.

All three of them were heartily glad to see Bilbo.

“Have you finished your book?” Gloin demanded.

“I have indeed,” Bilbo said proudly. “The original I intend to leave to Frodo, but Master Elrond has been kind enough to ask that a copy be made for the library here at Rivendell, so I am laboring on that now. Unless you have changed your mind about wanting a copy - ?”

Dwalin waved a hand. “Eh, what would be the point? We dwarves know what happened.”

“Still, perhaps we might read a portion to make sure our memories have not differed?” Gloin said.

“Of course! And if there are any corrections to be made for the copy, you must let me know, though I did do my best.” He pushed himself off the stone bench he was sitting on and walked over to his desk where a leather bound book lay. His steps were not nearly as firm as they had been decades before on the journey, and Gimli walked beside him with a steadying hand on his elbow.

Bilbo grinned up at him. “Thank you, my lad. My, how you have grown! I almost didn’t recognize you.”

“Ach, little fear of that. Who else could I be?”

Bilbo’s steps faltered, and Gimli cursed himself quietly. He should not have said that.

But his father snorted and saved the moment. “Aye, your beard grows more like mine every year, and your axe-work more the equal of your mother’s! Whose son you are is hard to miss, that’s right enough.”

“And we’re all thankful it’s not the other way around, or we never would have made it past those goblins on the way,” Dwalin grumbled.

“Hey!” Gloin protested, and all was right again.

 

At the Council, they shared their news. A foul messenger had offered them one of the Seven Rings in exchange for news of Bilbo, and they had delayed him for as long as they could.

“He will have certainly come again in our absence,” Gloin said, “and this time he will be fittingly denied.” There was a gleam in his eye when he said _fittingly._ When they’d left the mountain, the others had been playing dice to see who would the honor of shouting down the most creatively insulting response they could manage. Gimli was privately rooting for Bofur, although since the game chosen was dice, Nori probably had the best odds of cheating his way to victory.

The talk moved on, and it when it became clear that it was a quest that was wanted, Gimli was the first to leap to his feet and offer to accompany Frodo. One of the more infuriating elves insisted that then he would come too, but Gimli was willing to put up with that.

One last great alliance against evil, Elrond said, and that was as it should be. It would not be said that the dwarves stood aside.

No. One last quest.

Frodo found him afterwards. “Bilbo has given me his book,” he said. “There is still some space at the end of it. If I survive this quest, I will write of it, and if I fall but one of my companions does not, they shall take it up.” 

Gimli nodded.

The solemn moment was broken by Frodo’s grin. “But you had better hope the last one standing is not Pippin,” he said. “Then there will be much talk of the food of the journey, and little talk of great deeds, I fear!”

Gimli laughed and clapped Frodo on the back. “Then when it comes my turn to cook for our Fellowship, I must make sure that it too is worthy of remembrance,” he said. “Then I shall be safe!”

 

He had little patience for the elf. _Not the fault of the elves,_ was it? Not the elves’ fault for the petty dwarves being hunted like animals? Not the fault of the elves that Nogrod had fallen? Not the fault of the elves that Erebor had been given no aid and his people had wandered, starving, until - 

He took a deep breath and forced his hand away from his axe. Gandalf had turned away, so he felt safe enough muttering, “And whose fault was it that I spent far too long in the Elf-king’s dungeons, I ask?” with a a dark look at Legolas’s back.

He had forgotten the elf’s keen hearing. Legolas shot him a startled look. “You were on the quest for Erebor? I would have thought you far too young for it. Unless - “

“Aye,” Gimli said, glaring. “I was the one you compared to goblin spawn.”

If he had not known better, he would have sworn the elf flushed. “A child should not have been taken on that quest,” the elf muttered, as if that excused things.

Frodo looked back in concern as if he were about to intervene. Gimli waved him off. “We did what we must,” he said and stomped off to find better company. Pippin, perhaps. He needed some cheer in the shadow of Moria.

He knew all too well what they would find.

Or, rather, what he half feared, half hoped they would find. There would be no time to look, he knew, but he wished to pay his respects as much as he feared knowing how they had fallen.

 

Oin was the first. They found his bones just inside the door. Gimli knelt beside them and began to say a Khuzdul prayer. The others were too close not to hear it, but what did that matter now?

For once, even Gandalf was startled. “The dwarves pushed further at Azanulbizar than I knew,” he murmured.

“No,” Gimli said hoarsely as he stood. “This is no remnant of that battle. It was Oin that fell here.”

“Oin?” Gandalf repeated. “I had heard nothing of another attempt to retake Durin’s Halls.”

“There was none,” Gimli said shortly. “Only to see them and perhaps to retrieve what they could.” To find just a bit of mithril that they could shape without melting down past glories . . . to find Durin’s axe and bear it in battle once more . . . something. Anything. “When none returned, we knew they had failed.”

Far deeper in the mountain, they found Balin and Ori where they had fallen back to back. Gimli ignored the others’s to follow the hastily sketched runes to the loose stone where Ori had hidden his account.

“Does it say what befell the rest of the expedition?” Aragorn asked.

Gimli made only a pretense of checking. “No.” He turned to Frodo. “Master Hobbit, I don’t suppose . . . “

Frodo took the book. “Of course,” he said. “I am sure I can find room in my pack.”

“Good.” Gimli turned away. No need to let the others see that his eyes were wet.

And then a goblin corpse fell down the well, and there was no more time for grief.

 

Lothlorien changed his perspective on some things. The Lady Galadriel was worthy of admiration, and he was grateful for her gift. He could not match the great jewel smiths of ancient days, but perhaps just by preserving these, he could make something worthy of remembrance. 

And. Well. 

Perhaps even Legolas was not _entirely_ insufferable. 

 

When Frodo left the party, he left Ori’s account behind. It was kind of him to think of it, for the risk to the book would be great where the Ringbearer went. 

Gimli was grateful for the thought, but he was worried for the hobbit.

 

Legolas was not insufferable - was, in fact, perhaps even something approaching a friend - but Gimli was still very glad to beat him in their contest at Helm’s Deep.

“I shall have to remember to tell the hobbits,” he said to Aragorn with deep satisfaction. 

Aragorn looked rather exasperated. “Does it truly matter so much?”

“Of course it does!” he said indignantly. “We’re running out of chances to one-up the pointy ears. We must take them where we may and leave records so that none can claim otherwise.”

“They are not sailing West so fast that this matter cannot be put off until the war is over, surely.”

“And you did not surpass my count,” Legolas said stubbornly. “Our counts were equal.”

“That last one was dead! My axe was in his spine, I do not care if he was twitching!”

 

He walked away from the Glittering Caves with regret, waxing poetic about their charms. “I would like to see them again,” he ended wistfully.

“You speak of it so beautifully that even I wish to glimpse them,” Legolas said with a smile. “Come, when our journey is over, let us travel together. You may show me your caves, and I will show you the charms of this ancient forest.”

Gimli shook off the melancholy of imagining all the Caves could have been but would never be. To regret that was folly, and Legolas’s venture shone bright enough.

 

He did not hesitate to walk the Paths of the Dead. What would they say of the dwarves if he did?

And he had felt the weight of the dead before.

 

At the last battle of the war, he faced the fact that he was most likely going to die, and there would be no one to write of it.

But he would die side by side with a friend, facing the Enemy, and he could face his ancestors with pride if he died doing that. No shame in that. No shame at all.

Yet the day ended in victory, not tragedy, and they even got the last of their hobbits back.

 

He spoke with Frodo frequently as he healed, but he did not approach the matter of recording their quest. Frodo had done enough. Gimli would ask no more of him.

Frodo, however, had other ideas.

“I will write it,” he said firmly. “I would still be happy to copy Ori’s account as well if you still wish it.”

“Are you sure, lad?” Gimli asked. “I can do it myself and send out copies if it comes to it - “

“A Baggins has never gone back on his word yet,” Frodo interrupted, and it was so like his uncle, even from a sickbed, that Gimli smiled.

 

When the Fellowship had broken and even Gimli and Legolas’s journey was complete, they turned at last toward home. They did so together, as was only sensible. Their homes were not so far apart.

Still, the moment must at last come. “Shall we part here?”

“If you wish it,” Legolas said, “although I confess I had hoped to see Erebor. Your kin would not allow it after the Battle of Four Armies.”

Gimli hesitated. He should say no. Balin would have insisted on it.

But Balin was dead, and if he found what he feared he would find, then Gimli would prefer not to face it alone.

“Aye,” he agreed. “If you wish to see Erebor, than Erebor you shall see, but my heart grows anxious. Let us go straight there and not pass through Dale.”

There would be news in Dale, but Gimli had put off hearing it this long. He would put it off a little longer if he could.

 

It was plain, even without stopping for news, that there had been battle. Gimli grimly pressed on, refusing to dwell on the weapons perched on the walls of Erebor or the damage wrought to its gates.

He did not bother approaching the gates. Those had been shut since the Battle of Four Armies. Instead, he approached the entrance they had delved, one less particular than the one they had long ago used to gain entrance to the mountain.

Legolas followed. If he was confused, he sensed Gimli’s mood well enough not to press.

Gimli paused outside the door, invisible to all who did not know it was there. He took a deep breath. There was still hope, he reminded himself. There was still hope, and even if there was none, he had always known it would likely come to this - 

The door opened and his father ran out to embrace him. “Gimli, my lad! We had begun to fear for you.”

“Adad,” Gimli breathed. His breath choked with sobs. “Adad.”

“Still here, my lad,” Gloin assured him. “Still here.”

“The others?” he managed to ask.

“Bifur fell,” his father admitted. “And Bombur. They fought bravely. We’ve crafted their tombs, but there’s room yet for you to make your mark.”

Gimli nodded and at last let go.

It was bad, but not as bad as he’d feared.

His father turned at last to view Legolas. “And what is this?” he growled.

“A friend,” Gimli said firmly and stared his father down.

It was only a few moments before his father caved. “Perhaps it is not such a bad idea as all that. I’ll go collect the others while you go pay your respects.”

Gimli nodded. His father disappeared back into the mountain. Gimli took a deep breath and turned to Legolas, gesturing to the tunnel. “Welcome to Erebor.”

 

The lanterns from the entrance to the tombs were lit, but there was only so much they could do about the dust. It muffled the echoes of their footsteps.

“Where is everyone?” Legolas asked at last.

Gimli could guess where Nori, Dori, Bofur, and Dwalin would be, but he knew that wasn’t what the elf was asking. “I would have thought you’d have guessed,” he said instead. “Surely your father noticed when no great trail of wagons passed through his forest.”

“He did,” Legolas said slowly. “But with tensions between us so great, he assumed that they had taken the risk of going around.” He looked around at the empty corridor. “Surely there were some that wished to come?”

“No.”

“But for Erebor - !” Legolas protested, waving a hand at the glory still evident through the ruin. Their restoration had focused on other areas.

Gimli stopped and turned to face him. “There were none left to come.”

 

Two new graves were laid beside those of their last king and those that should have been his heirs. They had been in the Company. They deserved that honor.

When Gimli rose from kneeling beside them, Legolas at last found his voice. _“None?”_

“The Firebeards never recovered from the fall of Nogrod,” Gimli said dully. “The rest dwindled in their turn until Erebor was the greatest kingdom left standing. Until Smaug came and even it was no longer safe.” He let out a long huff of breath. “With no aid forthcoming, we knew we would not long survive under the open sky, so we tried one last time to reclaim the home of our fathers. We called together all who could still come, and it was the ruin of us. What few remained after the Battle of Azanulbizar banded together, but what could so few do against the hordes of orcs that hunted us? We are built to be strong, but even the strongest can only fight so many. Even the strongest can only bear the cold so long when there is so little food. Even the strongest can only bear so much grief.” His voice failed for a moment. “Disaster struck again and again. By the time Gandalf found us, we numbered only fourteen and not a dwarrowdam among us. There was no hope left for us, but it seemed Gandalf did not know. No one knew but us, and why should we not claim one last chance for glory? Why should we not see our father’s halls before we fell?”

“That is why they took you,” Legolas breathed. “There was no one to leave you with.”

“No,” Gimli admitted. “And I wanted to come. So we went, and we took not a burglar, as Gandalf first suggested, but a storyteller to remember our deeds. And we won. Ha! At last some luck for the dwarves. We won, and we shut our gates, and only the line of Bard knew that the dwarves were not just mysterious and isolationist but dwindled almost to nothing. We sent a stream of treasures down to Dale in exchange for this and that, and most never questioned, although they may now, since it came to war.” He sighed. “So that is that. Unless my axe fails me and I fall before my time, I shall be the last of the dwarves. I shall bury the last of my kin, and then, per our agreement, Bard’s line shall bury me and the treasure shall be their’s at last, and the dwarves shall fade to nothing but the tales of hobbits.” He looked up at Legolas. “And, I hope, the long memories of at least one elf.”

In this long tale of grief, Legolas had grown very pale. “No,” he said. “No, leave that not to the kindness of Men. When our friends have passed and your kin rest, we shall sail West together, and in the lands of the Undying we will make such a mark that the memory of the dwarves shall never fail.”

“They will not let a mortal land,” Gimli protested.

In the dim light, Legolas looked fierce and fey. “They shall,” he swore, and it rang with a force greater than Gimli had yet heard.

 

When the time came, they sailed. Legolas felt a power in the air and watched anxiously as they neared land. If the Valar chose now to protest -

But Gimli seemed not to share his fears. He leaped off the boat and ran towards the figure, stopping to bow a few feet away. “My lord - “ he began and then stopped and tried again. “We did our best,” he said almost pleadingly. 

“You did well,” Mahal said and gathered the last of his children into his arms.

**Author's Note:**

> It occurred to me that the last line could be taken as a metaphor for death, but I couldn't find anything I liked better, so just to make it clear: it's a hug, not death.


End file.
